


With Our Eyes Shut

by Inforapoundd



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Master/Slave, Slow Burn, grumpy men falling in love, mentions of passed abuse, series timeline inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inforapoundd/pseuds/Inforapoundd
Summary: Erik and Sigefrid Thurgilson arrive on the shores of England and take Beamfleot in a bloody siege. Discovering one of their new slaves has an unexpected skill, they demand to be taught. When this proves too challenging, Sigefrid finds other reasons to keep her close all the while struggling to make sense of his newly formed attachment. This is the story of a hardened warrior falling, hopelessly, in love.
Relationships: Erik Thurgilson & Sigefrid Thurgilson, Sigefrid/OFC
Comments: 13
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

The board sliding back to unlock the thick door startled the captives sitting on the floor of the dingy barn. Shushes and frightened gasps greeted the fair-haired Thurgilson as he walked in and eyed the huddled bunch. They were to be slaves to the heathen Danes and would soon learn that being cut down, like so many of their loved ones, would have been a blessing.

The siege had been fast, and the death count high with only a small number of women spared by the wicked brothers. They now had control over Beamfleot and planned to stay, establish and plot.

“Can anyone here read and write?” the Northman asked in a stern, thickly accented voice.

When no one responded, irritation flashed across his face, his kohl-lined eyes and long goatee making him look like some ghoul from a children’s fable.

“I will ask only once more.”

Reaching down, he grabbed the closest woman yanking her to her feet. Squealing like a piglet, she held up her shaking hands as if to signify she was helpless. The truth was, they all were and he knew it. Pointing his dagger at her face, he glared back at the captives, his cool blue eyes scanning them... waiting.

“Who. Here. Can. Read?” 

It was clear, his patience was gone. Most averted their eyes but some glanced at one another as if also seeking the answer, desperate for the barbarian to set his sights on anyone but them. 

“Shame,” he uttered, looking back to the woman, tightening his grip on the neck of her dress, making her cry out again.

Movement in his peripheral pulled his attention to the far corner. Pushing up to stand, a girl, a woman really leaned against the wall. She did not say a word but her terrified brown eyes met his just long enough for him to know that he had his answer.

\----

“Sigefrid,” Erik stressed his name as if to make his point. “We must keep our eye on the greater plan. To have this knowledge will give us the advantage of surprise.”

“So will my blade running through their skulls.” The dark-haired Thurgilson grinned, seated on the former Lord’s chair, “Surprise!” he laughed loudly, raising the incased knife affixed to his forearm up into the air.

If that was not a simple enough response to his brother’s suggestion that they learn the Christian language, he snorted and sucked snot down from the back of his nose, spitting a ball of phlegm onto the wood floor beside him.

Crossing his arms, Erik waited, knowing Sigefrid was not yet through.

“We do not need to read or write to raid and kill, Erik. We will settle here, enjoy what this bountiful land has to offer, and prepare to take out the weak king. We can speak their horse piss language, that is enough.”

“True, but would you not care to know what this says?” Erik held up the small scroll in his hand. It had been taken by two of their warriors who intercepted a messenger leaving Winchester. “Would it not be of value to know when and where their armies travel so we can better position? What if the black scratches on this parchment say that Alfred will soon be on the move, perhaps leaving his walled city to visit Mercia. On the road, he would be ripe for an ambush, brother. Just think...”

Always the less methodical out of the two, Sigefrid was passionate and impulsive, rash and at times his anger flared but now, he responded with silence knowing he would eventually agree with his younger brother. But not yet.

Roughly clearing his throat, he snorted again. “I will join the lessons,” he spoke slowly as to exaggerate his concession, “Once I have taken a shit. Unless I do it there,” his dark brows shot high and he flashed his straight white teeth, “welcome our tutor with the task of wiping that scroll across my dirty ass.”

“By the looks of her, you’d enjoy that,” Erik chuckled.

Emptying his cup in one go, Sigefrid’s dark eyes scanned the hall, “More ale!” he roared.

\----

The main building was not large, ten modestly sized chambers; six on the ground level, surrounding the main room, and four upstairs, evidently used by the previous and now dead Lord and his wife. Sigefrid would never understand why these Christian nobles did not share chambers with their wives. The only thought he had was, perhaps, it was less awkward on nights when humping the help. But domestic life, in any culture, was lost on him. He had never experienced it and did not plan to live that long. Wanting to reach Valhalla in his prime, it would be a warrior’s death for him and Erik was there to marry and breed, carry on their family’s bloodline.

Dark and handsome though, he was a self-proclaimed ladies man, always having his pick of the women. Felt them powerless against his bravado and charm and rarely went to bed without wetting his dick. Like killing, variety for him was the spice of life and Erik would tease that for Sigefrid, excess was the best show of success.

As much as he grumbled at the notion of learning the Saxon’s written word, he knew Erik would not lead them astray. Preferring to approach battle in a straight line, he charged at any target, whereas his baby brother touted strategy, suggesting that the zig and zag of tactical ambush would spare them men. Despite the glory of dying with a weapon in the hand, Sigefrid did recognize the convenience in keeping their numbers stable. They had set up shop in Wessex’s back yard and Alfred’s land was theirs for the taking.

\----

No crude or threatening comments came from Sigefrid when he first saw her. No jeering eyes or aggressive words. Nothing. He just looked at her standing frozen, alone, in front of them, her large brown eyes incapable of hiding her fear. He guessed in any circumstance she was likely a quiet little thing but there, before him and Erik, she had every reason to be afraid.

There was something in the way she watched them that he liked; an anticipation that reminded him of a baby doe, afraid, yet curious and seconds from fleeing to its mother. But there was no mother there to protect this girl... or woman. He could not tell how old she was, certainly younger than him, younger still than Erik. 

Jerking his head, he lifted his blade, motioning for them to get on with the ridiculous charade, emphasizing his resistance with a loud grunt as he lowered himself into a chair at the table.

For privacy, Erik had chosen one of the upper rooms which had obviously been used as a meeting or council room. It consisted of a table with eight chairs, a fireplace, and daybed. It was not a large room or particularly bright but was situated next to their private chambers which meant it was sectioned off from others.

It was Erik’s suggestion that they understand the language from the basics up, outlining his wish to start with their alphabet and from there learn to read. Taking paper torn from one of the room’s many books, the girl, with a shaky hand, dipped one of the feather quills Erik had gathered into an ink pot and began writing out two copies of the Saxon’s alphabet.

It was quite a sight, sitting across as her trembling hand replicated the markings, her eyes looking like they fought themselves to stay fixed on the paper. As anyone would, she sat pensively as if expecting to be bit and it made him think of her, for the second time, as that little deer and them as two hungry wolves.

Watching, he wondered if her rosy cheeks were caused by fear or if her work, at whatever she did before their arrival, had her out under the sun. She had the slightest dusting of freckles and he guessed that if she were to smile, her cheeks would even dimple. The thought made him grin as he could not imagine what reason she would have to smile in her current predicament; a slave to the Danes, young and pretty, everyone she knew either dead or being worked like a mule.

Inhaling he let his impatience be known, sighing loudly and only mildly aware of some internal debate he was having; his mind slow to connect with his body’s response to the woman in front of him, loving how her small hands rushed to finish knowing he was staring.

Placing the quill down, she turned the papers for them to inspect. Straightening in their chairs, their expressions became serious, both looking unprepared for the complexity of the rows and rows of ruin-like symbols.

The men picked up their delicate feather quills, fumbling to find a position in their large hands that were more accustomed to wielding weapons and spilling blood. Sigefrid dropped the quill immediately, scoffing in an outright refusal and shot his brother a look.

“Dear brother,” he groaned, watching Erik’s earnest face, his eyes fixed on the paper below. “I feel like a fool.”

Not replying, Erik dragged the quill across the thin paper, holding it with his other to keep it in place. The tip cut through the delicate parchment from the heavy pressure he was unintentionally applying.

Looking back to the girl, Sigefrid’s eyes met hers for just instant before she lowered them again to the table. He suspected she had been looking at the knife strapped to his arm where his hand had once been. Not saying a word, he continued to study her, a mild thrill moving through him knowing, again, that she could feel his stare.

“You know I have never bothered with slaves,” he spoke in Danish. “I have no interest in bedding Christian farm girls.”

“Hmm,” Erik replied, his tongue sliding back and forth across his lower lip in concentration.

“If I want a hump, there are twenty Dane women downstairs insane to ride my cock,” he spoke slowly as if enjoying the sound of his own voice. “By the looks of her, she would not be able to handle such a beast.” He smiled at her downcast face deciding she really was quite beautiful; almost irritatingly so. “But you know what I think, brother?”

“I think you will tell me,” Erik answered also in Danish.

“This one,” he jerked his chin in her direction. “I think she likes me.”

“It helps that I told her she had to teach us or she dies,” he glanced up to her quickly but kept on with the quill. “She will do what it takes to survive. They all do.”

“What do you think?” Sigefrid chuckled, his white teeth visible through his thick black beard. “Should I make an exception? Teach her about glory holes?”

Startling, the girl looked up, spooked, as if she had just heard her name called for execution.

“Did you understand that?” Erik looked up with round eyes, asking in English but she did not answer.

Frowning, Sigefrid leaned forward in his chair, “Did you?” 

Not waiting for her to respond, he shot up from his chair and stalked around to her side, placing his hands on the table and the back of her chair and leaned down. Instead of fleeing or crying, she squeezed her eyes closed, her body rigid as if waiting for a blow or to be dragged from her chair.

He brought his face closer to hers. “I asked you,” he spoke slowly, his accented voice oozing with threat. “Did you understand?”

“A little,” she opened her eyes, causing Sigefrid to look over at Erik.

Raising his hand, Erik signaled for him to give her a moment.

“Girl, how do you know our tongue,” Erik asked, his voice less aggressive.

“I know only a little.”

“Who taught you?” Erik probed and her eyes skitted around the room nervously.

“Maybe a blade to the throat will stir your memory, Saxon,” Sigefrid warned, dragging out the title.

Her eyes flashed back to his.

“I am from Frankia,” she uttered, sounding almost apologetic.

This made Sigefrid’s head cock to one side as he noticed that her voice did, in fact, have a different sound.

“That does not answer my question,” he leaned closer, by chance catching a glimpse down the bust of her dress.

“My father!” she rushed. “He was an interpreter.”

“For who?” Erik asked.

“A noble family in Paris.”

“Was he,” Erik said more to himself, his voice sounding as if his mind was already reeling with possibilities.

“Very interesting,” Sigefrid added leaning over her a little more, the crease between her heavy bosoms holding his eye. “Where is he now? We could ask for his help to understand their walled city. It has never been breached. Fools have tried but...”

“My parents are both dead,” she cut him off. “Nearly two years ago.”

“How?”

“My father was traveling to Northumbria on business and took my mother and I...as the trip would have had him gone for so long. We were robbed on the road; I somehow got away into the woods and hid.” She looked down into her lap, clearing her throat before continuing. “Their throats were cut.”

“Were they Danes?” Erik asked.

“I do not believe so.”

“They were no Danes,” Sigefrid scoffed. “Danes would not have let her escape.”

“Your father taught you other languages?” Erik asked, wanting to keep the girl talking.

Nodding she answered, her eyes staying fixed on her lap, “French, of course, English, the two languages of Ireland, some Arabic, I can understand some Danish but I cannot speak it well.”

The brothers exchanged glances, their eyes coming alive.

“This might be your lucky day,” Sigefrid smiled, straightening to stand.

“Or ours,” Erik looked up at his brother. “What a shit idea this was,” he smiled and picked up the paper in front of him, ripping it into pieces and making Sigefrid laugh.

“Do as you are told,” Sigefrid spoke abruptly, making her flinch, “and we will kill you last.”

\----

Days went by and Sigefrid entered the same room where Waylen now waited, standing guard; the girl was on the far side of the table, evidently wanting to keep some obstacle between her and the enormous Dane. Sigefrid had sent him to fetch her from the kitchen and escort her up to the meeting room. Pausing, he watched her, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him; he could have sworn she looked mildly relieved when he entered. Not surprising, he decided, as she was all but dragged into a private room by the hulking, young warrior. 

Nodding he motioned for Waylen to leave, kicking the door closed behind. Turning his attention back to the girl, she shifted awkwardly under his gaze, clutching her apron, her expression almost expectant.

“I have been thinking about you,” he tapped his sheathed knife against his forehead. “I am too suspicious of a man to allow one slave to hold so much wisdom. Too cunning for us to become reliant on your,” his eyes narrowed, “cooperation. So..” he sucked air through his teeth, “the lessons will continue.” Dropping his chin, he eyed her from under his dark brows; she did not react but he could see her thoughts moving behind her large brown eyes.

“You will teach me... alone. This will be a,” he paused, thinking of how best to phrase it, “surprise for my brother. I will have Waylen fetch you when I want, and you will tell no one. And…despite my better judgment,” he hesitated, for an instant questioning his own thinking, “for your discretion, I am going to protect you. Hey?”

Her reply came by way of a subtle nod but the message was still clear, yes.


	2. Chapter 2

“You do not speak much.”

Glancing away, her eyes shifted about the room but returned to his, clearly unsure of whether to respond.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, noticing the way her fingers still fiddled with her apron and the skirt of her dress. “Afraid of this?” he lifted his bladed arm.

Looking at it, she nodded yes.

“Wise,” he smiled showing his remarkably good teeth.

“I do speak,” her voice croaked, and she immediately cleared her throat. “But, here, it is better to be….” she hesitated.

“Mute?”

“Invisible.”

“I see,” he eyed her a moment longer, dissecting her meaning before taking a seat and motioning for her to join.

Moving to stand next to him, she unsurprisingly, chose the side with his good hand.

“Woman, start,” he nodded, his voice again gruff.

Reaching forward, she gathered the materials they had abandoned the first day. Pulling the one remaining copy of the alphabet forward, she pushed a quill towards him.

With a huff, he picked it up, fumbling with the thin feather and pressed it to the parchment. Her hands shot forward and grabbed his, stilling it before repositioning the feather in his large, weathered hand.

“Softly,” she uttered. “Do not press.”

Saying nothing, he watched her small hands pull away from his.

Humming, she indicated her approval as he drew the curved lines of the first letter. Once done, he scowled at his work and looked over to her.

“A,” she said, looking at him evenly.

“A,” he repeated, perking up at the fact she had not found an error. 

“Ahh,” she sounded it out.

“What?” he made a face.

“This letter. That is the sound it makes. Ahh.”

“Why? I thought it was A. I am not making that sound.”

Shrugging, she looked back to the paper and pointed at the next symbol walking him through the same process.

Shooting his head back, he felt the silliest sense of pride, looking at the two markings that were more or less like hers.

It made him grin, “I am a fucking natural. Nooooo surprise,” he called out, tipping his head back and laughing.

She could not help but smile and his eyes caught it before returning his focus to the next few letters.

Perfectly still, she stood at his side and each time he completed another, he would look to her for adulation. Inwardly he rolled his eyes at himself, so easily bolstered by her praise.

“Sit down,” he said, still working the quill. “A warrior does not like to be stood over.”

Pulling out the chair, she settled in and he slouched back, taking it as a moment to rest.

“I do not understand how these things,” he nodded indicating the paper, “create language.”

She looked from him back to the paper, “It takes time, Lord. It is a skill...like any other. Each step a base for the next.”

She kept her gaze on the table, avoiding his eyes.

He sighed, opening and closing his hand as if it had been strained.

“This exhausts me. I feel the need to,” put my cock in something warm he thought but instead he said, “...drink.”

Sliding back his chair, he rose and headed to the door, glancing back as he opened it, “We will do this again.”

“Tomorrow, Lord?”

Chewing the skin on the inside of his lip, he paused, thinking, “No,” he shook his head, leaving without another word.

___

It was a week before she turned and nearly slammed into the enormous Waylen standing behind her, waiting to escort her to the meeting room. Following that lesson, she was summoned every few days but it quickly evolved into most afternoons.

The progress was slow and slowed further by his many questions and need to understand. And, although still skittish, she seemed to find some guarded sense of ease in his presence, set back, at times, by his outbursts of frustration.

She began to bring a jug of ale and bread and cheese or fruit, whatever she could take from the kitchen without attracting attention. As one of the two Lords of Beamfleot, Sigefrid could have anything but she, maintaining her word to keep their meetings private, moved in the shadows.

That afternoon, the session was much like any other, Sigefrid in the chair, uncomfortably working the quill with her seated next as he sounded out simple words. Still, regularly grunting and mumbling how moronic it all was.

“Now what?” He dropped the feather and looked at her.

“A moment please, Lord,” rising from her seat, she went to the shelf on the far side and filled a cup from a jug of wine. Bringing it to him, along with a plate of bread and dried meat with an apple on the side, she handed it over, motioning for him to drink.

“Are you trying to poison me,” he sniffed the cup. “Or, get me drunk?”

“Eat and drink first. The next part will feel silly and you anger easily when you have not eaten.”

Smiling, he emptied half the cup in one loud gulp, taking such a large bite from the apple, it collapsed into two. Smoothing his hand over his thick black beard, his smile simmered but his dark eyes continued to shine. It was quiet moments like these, looking at her pretty face that he felt he was coming to terms with his fondness of having her near. 

“So the wine loosens the tongue and makes me a better pupil, eh?”

“Enough wine and people will do almost anything,” she smiled but quickly lowered her eyes.

“How did you end up a slave in Beamfleot?”

“I told you,” she replied in a soft voice, still looking down. “My mother and father were killed.”

“Yes, but after that?”

“I made my way through the woods, eventually found myself on that ridge just beyond the east wall. Stayed there for several days.”

“And then?” he pressed, tearing off a bite of the salted meat.

She settled back in the chair as if sensing the lesson was over.

“Two men out hunting stumbled upon me and one of them brought me home to his family. He had a wife and four children and I helped look after them and cook...did chores,” she shrugged.

“Did they mistreat you?” he emptied his cup and she sprung to her feet, retrieving the jug and filled it again.

“I am alive so...” she sat back down. 

Dropping his chin, he eyed her, squinting, making it clear he was not buying her dismissiveness.

For a moment she said nothing but exhaled and answered. “He took liberties, Lord,” she looked down, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “After the first season with them...I found myself...in a sensitive way.”

At that, his own eyes faltered and he looked into his cup, saying nothing more.

Clearing her throat, she again pushed the hair away from her face.

“I drank poison I got from a healer... or a witch, I am not sure what she was. It took care of it and nearly me in the process, but some good did come from it,” she pressed her lips together. “He did not touch me after that...though...his wife became a danger.” She shrugged again. “I have forced myself to believe that it was not about me,” she looked up, surprising him by staring into his eyes, “and that I was just some faceless pound of flesh. On your own Lord, you learn all people prey on those who have no where to go.”

They sat for some time in silence, broken only by the distant sounds of wood being chopped and faint voices as people went about their day.

“You hate Saxon people?” he finally asked, his voice unusually quiet.

“I neither hate or care for them but I am reminded each day that they are not my people.”

“Do you speak of these meetings to the other slaves.”

“No, Lord,” her eyes widened. “Never. I speak to no one. I have only ever had words with you...and Lord Erik on that first day. Being from Frankia, there is no place for me among the slaves. I just do as I’m told.”

Closing his eyes, he could not help but imagine the horrors she must have endured, hoping that this man was one he had driven his sword through. It made his gut feel sour and he cleared his throat, shaking off the feeling. “Bloody Saxons, eh?”

Frowning, he gave her an awkward look, concealing the fact he felt strange; the irony of their lives and circumstances flaring in his mind.

He held out his cup. “Finish it,” he nodded. “It helps with more than loosening the tongue.”

Her face brightened a little and she reached out, taking the cup from his hand and tasting the wine.

“Do I still scare you?” he asked, speaking slowly, his voice deep and resonant.

Air rushed from her nose and she nearly laughed. “Of course,” she replied and he felt a twinge of disappointment.

“You need this too,” he held out his plate, noticing that her face had thinned over the weeks of their meetings. “Go on, I am not a generous man so...”

Reaching forward, she took a piece of the hard meat, taking a small bite.

“More?” he jerked his head toward the cup, topping it up from the jug, feeling rather content with the way that she smiled.

——

Her translation of the recent scroll had been correct; two powerful thrones were set to align. Kingdoms throughout England wanted to wish Alfred’s daughter and the lord of Mercia’s marriage well by sending gifts. The offerings were received at Winchester and were to be transported to Mercia via convoy, guarded by a handful of soldiers, exactly ten days before the ceremony.

The brothers had been there to intercept. Waiting on either side of the road with only four additional men. It had been effortless; the convoy blindsided. The Saxon men easily cut down and the brothers back in Beamfleot, much wealthier, all before the evening meal. The take was great; gold and silver, jewelry, some weapons, and books; those, of course, would be burned. As much as Sigefrid loved to fight, he saw the wisdom in this approach.

Slouching back in his chair at the head table, hand on a full horn, he stared out the open doors only partially listening to Erik and another man recount the day and laugh. Instead of chuckling along, his mind drifted to other lands, farther north and even overseas. Places she could speak the language that he had never even dreamt of conquering.

A figure flashed by in the late-day light, entering the dining room.

“If she picked a fight it looks like she lost,” Erik said, leaning closer to Sigefrid, jerking his head in the girl’s direction.

Having not caught a proper glimpse, Sigefrid turned and instantly saw what Erik was referring to. She was visibly upset and clutching her shoulder, her face flushed and her dress covered in muck from the hip down. Before even forming his next thought, he was up and crossing the room, grabbing her arm to stop her from entering the kitchen.

Staring down at her startled, tear-streaked face, he saw that the front of her was wet and the neck of her dress torn.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Breaking their eye contact, she shook her head, folding over her apron to cover the mess.

“I said,” he softened the intensity of his voice, “what happened? Did someone hurt you?” Again, his eyes scanned her muddy clothes, focusing on her defined collarbone exposed by the tear in the fabric.

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she glanced up nervously, her eyes flitting passed him toward where he had been sitting.

As he was turning to follow her line of sight, a shrill voice interrupted.

“Where is that Frankish whore?” spat one of the older kitchen thralls. Rounding the corner, her eyes locked onto the girl but flashed wide at the sight of Sigefrid.

“What is going on?” This time he yelled. “I will not ask again!”

The haggard-looking woman shook her head as if disgusted, “Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, Lord, I will handle her. This stupid girl can’t even do a simple task. I’ve already been told she’s gone and tripped, smashed the whole lot of eggs.”

His eyes snapped back to the girl but she was looking down at her clasped hands.

“Get in here and stop bother’n Lord Sigefrid, you filth. I’m gonna beat your ass with...”

“That’s enough!” he barked at the woman making her washed-out eyes shoot even wider. “Shut your mouth and get in that kitchen,” he pointed with his blade.

The old woman turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner.

“Go clean up,” he said to the girl, stepping closer, irritated she would not look at him. “I want you working in the dining room only. Where I can see.”

They both stood still for a moment, his eyes again running over the rip in her dress, catching sight of red marks on her skin that were beginning to rise.

“Go,” he ordered, and she started off, racing out the main door in the direction of the barn slave quarters.

“Settling slave disputes now, brother?” Erik smiled as Sigefrid dropped heavily back into his chair, his eyes still set on the door.

“That girl is more trouble than she’s worth,” he muttered under his breath, taking a drink of mead.

“Four hundred pounds of gold and silver upstairs says otherwise,” Erik nudged his leg under the table.

While he had been away from his seat, Haesten joined and was now seated, drinking, droplets of ale running down his unruly beard.

The long tables began to fill for the evening meal and the volume of the room rose as word of the ambush and the rich spoils spread.

Sigefrid's eyes caught the movement of her dark hair as she rushed back in, barely visible behind the tall warriors. As she came into view, she glanced at him before rushing to collect a pitcher.

“Cleans up nice, that one,” Haesten’s husky voice oozed out, his smudged black eyes tracking her. “I like her big round tits. They have yet to be worked flat,” he laughed, taking another drink.

The meal was served by four thralls, including her. Platters of meat and bread, some root vegetables, and bowls of green apples were carried out for the fifty or so men eating in the first seating.

Unusually quiet, Sigefrid chewed meat from a leg of pheasant, his eyes scanning the packed room but always drifting back to her.

She moved between the rows, refilling cups of ale, seemingly avoiding his table altogether. Further, and more concerning he noticed how his men heckled her, some patting her bottom and others tugging on the skirt of her dress.

“Ah, you have noticed my blooming flower,” Haesten crooned.

“Huh?” Sigefrid looked over at him.

“She has escaped my clutches twice now. I found her bending over, collecting eggs from the coop; that plump round ass of hers high in the air. Hmm,” he hummed to himself, his eyes still following her. “No luck though, little thing squirmed out of my arms for a second time,” pausing he took a swig from his cup, “seeing her bent, I could not help but yank down my pants. Next time I will wait until I’m between her legs so she cannot out-run me,” he laughed.

Sigefrid’s hand slammed down so hard on the table, it jostled the plates and cups.

“You will go no where near her,” he spoke low and slow, dropping his chin as he stared at Haesten.

Without looking up from his plate, Erik spoke around a mouthful of bread, “She is our translator now. And...she is a good girl. Not to be handled roughly by the likes of you.”

Sigefrid’s face was tense, his eyes still burning out from under his dark brow.

“Does not seem that all the men are aware,” Haesten said, looking back over at her.

Also looking, Sigefrid saw one of his men, pull her down onto his lap, laughing, telling her not to be so shy.

Out of his seat, he stormed around the table, grabbing the girl’s arm for the second time that night, yanking her out of his man's grasp. The warrior looked up, utterly confused seeing Sigefrid’s gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

”Lord,” he said in an apologetic tone, “I had not realized that you had taken her for yourself.”

“Well, I have!” he roared and the room fell silent. “No one touches this slave. No one,” he glared at all those staring back at him, “Until I am done with her,” he added, turning and leading her back to the table.

Sitting, he pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arm around her waist, ignoring both his brother and Haesten. The young woman sat awkwardly, staring down at her hands, her long brown hair hanging loose, concealing the sides of her face.

Taking a leg of chicken from his plate, he held it up for her but she did not take it; just looked at it, nervously.

His arm tightened around her waist and pressed his lips against her hair.

“Eat,” he whispered. Straightening, he spoke again, this time loud enough for the others to hear. “I will not have your ass disappear.” Slowly she reached up and took the drumstick, bringing it to her mouth. “Once you are done go up to the meeting room and wait for me.”

——

It was not clear to him why he knocked instead of barging in but there he was, standing in the hall waiting for her to answer. Opening the door, she glanced up but quickly stepped aside clearing the way.

Once the door was closed behind, he faced her, standing close and shifting the bundle of fabric he held under one arm. His eyes settled on the two crudely stitched x’s that held the neck of her dress in place.

“These dresses were in a trunk in my room,” he held them out. “Likely the prior lady’s.”

Blinking with surprise she took them, the bundle enormous in her arms.

Shuffling his feet, he searched for his next words, confused by his cautiousness, and again irritated that she had been dragged into his life by his brother.

Studying her, he noticed how her hands fumbled nervously with the clothes and how she could not maintain his gaze. Likely bracing, he guessed, for some form of assault. But there was just something about her thick dark hair and brown eyes, the symmetry of her plush lips and round cheeks that made him unable to look away. He felt weakened somehow, and worse, could not tell if he liked or hated it.

Slowly, he reached forward, lifting her chin with his fingers; her round eyes meeting his.

Despite the flood of bewilderment, what he did know, undeniably, is that he never wanted her to hurt again. For the first time in his thirty-one years, he asked a slave, her, an intimate question; one that related to who she was in her world before he destroyed it. “Tell me,” he narrowed his eyes, “What is your name?”

Her small, reluctant voice answered, so faint he had to strain to hear.

“Genevieve.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Genevieve,” he repeated her name, his thick accent tripping over the pronunciation. Releasing her chin, he stood in place looking at her. Everything; her intelligent eyes, open face and soft figure, so much fuller than the women who fought for him, made her name somehow perfect.

She stared back, barely breathing and he guessed she was waiting to learn what depraved things a claimed slave had coming. He knew her well enough now to know, she did not have dreams of being spoiled or set free, she just wanted to blend in to her surroundings, be forgotten, and survive.

Letting out a weary breath, he took a half step back, “From tonight forward, you sleep in this room. Here,” he motioned with his blade to the daybed pushed against the wall. “Do your work each day and then come back.”

Glancing over to it, she said nothing but he could tell her mind still reeled, attempting to find some explanation. He, himself, did not understand.

“That is all,” he muttered before nodding and leaving her to stand in the dark, her arms full of a dead woman’s clothes.

\----

“For a man with a Frankish beauty you do not at all seem sated,” Erik glanced over as he spooned hot oats into his mouth.

Grumbling, Sigefrid did not respond.

“How is she? I have heard what wanton lovers her kind make.”

“I do not ride her,” he replied, with just a hint of exhaustion. “She is our translator... I simply did not want her out in that barn where those slaves could poison her mind to mislead us.”

“Ah, makes sense,” Erik’s eyes drifted back. ”For a man who is not bedding her, you seem incapable of pulling your eyes from her ass,” he smiled, his blue eyes alive and playful.

Sigefrid attempted to laugh but it came out more like a snort.

“I would not cock spear a slave,” he announced, chewing his breakfast with his mouth open. “Why would I want to give a Christian that much pleasure!” he said loudly, with an equally loud grin. “Hey?” 

“So moving her into the room next is simply to make your lessons more... convenient?”

Sigefrid's spoon stopped mid-air and he looked at Erik, feeling and no doubt looking caught.

“Dear brother,” Erik flashed a look of understanding. “Your voice is as loud as a war horn. You think I would not notice,” he laughed. “I commend your enthusiasm for a scholarly life though,” he chuckled again, shooting his brother a glance. “I really do.”

Grunting like a woken bear, Sigefrid’s eyes drifted back to Genevieve as she lay a tray down on one of the tables, piling it high with empty bowls.

“Haesten has returned with another scroll,“ he said, steering the conversation away from her.

“Perhaps this one will be of interest,” Erik suggested. “Either way we will, again, put your pet to the test.“

Looking over, Erik’s own eyes settled on the young woman, watching her sneak glances at his brother.

\----

The silence between them as they sat, side by side, felt somehow deafening. He had already decided there was little point to the lesson. His mind was elsewhere, conjuring assumptions of what unspoken words hung in the air.

It was so idiotic, he nearly groaned, feeling his cheeks warm as he stared down at the flimsy paper, holding a fucking feather in his hand.

Despite the strain, what he was most aware of, more than anything and possibly for the first time, was the sensation of her eyes on him.

Frustrated at nothing in particular, he threw the quill down and watched her get up and move about the room, refill his cup and continue to translate the names of various items she randomly picked up. All the while he watched, he wondered, in the heat of loving making, if he were inside her, what words would tumble from her lips? Would she whimper his name and hang off his neck, rut her round hips against him? Would her soft mouth feel like Valhalla and would her taste stay on his tongue like a memory?

Sighing under his breath, he pressed his stiff erection, straining in his pants to the underside of the table.

Her voice continued to tease his ear as she seemed to speak just enough for him to want to hear more. That accent.. fuck...he audibly grunted. It had the sweetest tone and each word seemed to touch the other, blending without interruption with the hint of some unknown sound that he did not recognize from the Saxon’s sharper tongue. He must be going soft in the head.

“Your arm bothers you today, yes?” she asked quietly, coming back around and sitting down. “You look in pain.”

Saying nothing, he looked down at the table, needing to get his mind straight and stop lamenting over a young girl. A slave girl at that, with no family, no wealth, one who could vanish and it not even raise a question.

Except in his mind....he would notice. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. 

This was just restlessness, surely, he had not killed in some time. That explained it. He needed to spill blood and scream into the air, wake his usual prowess and fuck something. Glancing over at her, he realized it had been months since he celebrated the siege of Beamfleot by taking three of his maidens to bed. He was a generous lover, not a total animal. He slammed into each one of them that night, made sure they came, finished by having them kneel before him, tongues out like hunting pups, thirsty and howling for his seed.

He sighed again, pushing the image of her pillowy tits out of his mind. “I need you to do something for me,” he opened his leather vest, reaching inside, and withdrawing a rolled piece of paper. It was held tight with a round of wax and stamped with a royal seal. “Tell me what this says.”

\----

Reaching down he slid his fingers into her hair, his swollen head slipping out of the side of her mouth. Quickly, she sucked it back in, her tongue rolling over the crease below his tip, her hand coming up to stroke his shaft.

Grunting, agitated, he squeezed his fist in her hair, lifting her off. Through the darkness, he could just make out the whites of her surprised eyes looking up at him. Her name was Ulfhild and she was a good warrior, quick with a sword and pretty if she did not smile. Normally, she could suck cock like a champion but tonight it all felt...flat. Waving her off, he told her to go and turned onto his side with a huff.

Alone in his private chamber and lavish bed, he felt anything but settled. For some time he lay still, listening to his own breath, attempting to push away his frustration and call forward sleep. Annoyingly, her, Genevieve, continued to float in his thoughts.

He did not understand it. Did not know what it could be about her that had infected his mind so. Yes, she was beautiful and enticingly plump but there were many available beauties. Dane ones! Ones who could fight, knew his Gods, actually spoke more than two or three words at a time. Not that he wanted to talk to any of them...

The entire thing was stupid and worse, being in the next room, with only a wall between, was putting him off of fucking one of his usuals.

Opening his eyes, he frowned....he assumed she was on the other side of the wall. How would he know if she had not returned after her work as she had been for weeks now? He expected her to be there... It was safest for her to stay close.

Growling, he thrashed onto his back and stared up at the dark slanted ceiling. Now he really could not find any peace.

Reaching up, he made a fist and held it still in the air, sighing, he knocked twice on the wooden wall. He simply had to know. Yes, his warriors were loyal and knew he claimed her but they were still men. Beasts with hard cocks that likely twitched, like his did, every time she walked passed, her curves stirring up some virile instinct to breed.

The smallest two taps on the far side of the wall jolted him back from his thoughts. Freezing at first, his body then relaxed as he shook his head at himself. What a fucking bonehead he was. Rolling back onto his side, he closed his eyes and with a shit-eating grin, finally, found some rest.


	4. Chapter 4

Finishing his ale, Sigefrid glanced up to the second story before scanning the room and calling out for a refill. It had been just over a week since he decided to end the lessons. With Genevieve’s knowledge, he felt it a waste of his time. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he had no interest in learning to read and never did. As a warrior, he was well versed in a more recognized language, violence, and that had served him well.

Despite calling it off, he still found reason for her to stay close, deeming her his personal thrall. The scrolls being retrieved were few and far between, the last two of no interest at all. He kept her somewhat busy though, maintaining his chamber, tiding his things, organizing his baths, and generally… being near.

For days now, there had been a bounce in his stride and his voice seemed to boom louder than ever. As brothers do, Erik teased him that the Danes at home across the ocean could likely see his smile. Perhaps he was in a good mood, but by the Gods, he felt the world was at his feet.

Having beat Erik and some of the men back from hunting, he sat in his chair like the king of everything, watching his little brother approach, crossing the yard, and entering the dining room. Straightening, he flashed him a toothy smile, the kind he typically reserved for the maidens.

“My brother the hunter!” Sigefrid yelled out, holding out his horn of topped up mead.

Dropping down into the chair next, Erik smiled and adjusted the tiny ball of orange and white fluff against his chest, so tiny it fit in one hand.

“What a catch, brother! We will feast tonight!” Sigefrid bellowed out, laughing loudly at the sight of the small kitten.

“Found him in a stump on his own. Family must have been eaten.” Erik looked over at his big brother whose attention had already moved on. “I cannot look after it. I was thinking you could give it to Genevieve.”

Lowering his cup, mid drink, Sigefrid made a face, “I will not be giving her kittens. Gen is my slave.”

“Hmm, that’s right. I almost forgot.” Erik looked back down to the fur-ball in his hand, now biting his rough finger with its tiny teeth. “Fair enough,” he shrugged, “I will give it to her then,” he pushed out of the chair and headed for the staircase.

“You will do no such thing,” Sigefrid called after him, getting up and following.

Pausing, with one foot on the step, Erik looked back over his shoulder, failing horrendously at trying not to laugh.

Scowling, Sigefrid put out his hand, “Give it to me.”

Erik passed it over but not before faking him out, pulling it just out of reach once. “I will get out of your way then,” he nodded and moved passed, returning to his chair.

Making a half snort, half grumbling sound, Sigefrid headed up the stairs, shaking his head at a smug-looking Erik.

\----

Entering his room, he closed the door behind and watched her look up from where she sat in a chair below the window. A mustard colour tunic was in one of her hands with a needle and thread in the other. Mending the split seams of his shirts seemed to be a weekly task and she had already, painstakingly, re-cuffed his shirts to fasten properly below his blade.

“Lord,” she said softly, putting her work aside to stand and greet him properly but he waved her off, indicating for her to stay put.

As she was lowering her sights back to the shirt she paused, clearly noticing how his eyes were fixed on her, his one arm tucked behind his back.

Cocking her head softly to one side, she squinted, looking somewhat suspicious, “What are you up to?”

Walking over, he swung his arm around presenting the kitten, its little head, the only part visible above the top of his large hand.

Her eyes shot wide, and she gasped, shooting up out of the chair.

“Chaton!” she cooed, taking the kitten into her hands and bringing it up to kiss its little head between its equally tiny ears. With bright eyes, she glanced up at him, her smile beaming.

“Its a cat,” he said, his face looking puzzled.

Laughing, she turned the kitten around to better see its face, “Yes,” she laughed again, “a tiny baby cat, chaton.”

It made a near soundless meow and she squealed and cooed at it again. Her entire reaction making him feel funny.

“Where did you get it?”

“Erik found it somewhere. I,” he hesitated, swallowing the fact it had not been his idea, “thought you might like it.”

Frowning, her head shot back. “Me?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” he dropped his chin, eyeing her, “you.”

“Why?” she asked softly as if still not believing it.

His brows furrowed, “If you do not want it, I will just take it outside and kill it.”

“No!” Her mouth gaped open and she brought the kitten under her chin as if to shield it. “Lord, you would not dare.” She eyed him, looking not entirely sure he was teasing.

The astounded expression on her face made him snicker.

“What?” she asked. “It takes nothing away from a person to be kind, particularly to an animal.”

“Gods you are gullible. Of course, I would not hurt a cat,” he told her, outright lying. “Its to keep you company.”

She looked back to the kitten, her brown eyes still shining.

“In case you are tiring of mine,” he grinned, his smile reaching his dark eyes and she pressed her lips together, her cheeks instantly starting to colour.

Retreating, he headed for his bed, taking a seat and started on the laces that held his cuff and blade in place.

Grabbing the basket beside her chair, she placed a drying cloth inside, gently placing the kitten down.

Moving to him, her small hands pushed his large one aside and she continued working on the laces. His eyes moved to her face, as they always did, and he noticed how her hair was partially pulled back from her face and that her dark lashes were slightly lighter at the tips.

“You will go for your supper without this?” She glanced up and he felt caught staring.

He made some grunting sound but did not answer as she loosened the laces, pulling off the appendage. Obviously, heavy in her hands, she placed it down on the table next to his bed. Pushing air out of his mouth, he held the end of his blunt arm, wincing, as he attempted to squeeze away the pain. 

“Would you like me to rub some of your oil from the healers on it?” she looked at him with a sincere face.

It made him want to bark like a dog with laughter. His sweet slave offering to rub his stump with oil. Gods, yes, he wanted that, thinking that he, himself, was truly the funniest person he had ever known.

“No,” he tried not to smile. “I am tired from hunting and have an early morning. Go to the kitchen and bring something back for both of us. You can eat with me...in here.”

Lowering her eyes, she nodded, and he fucking loved how shy she got.

“Also, gather my things for the raiding trip tomorrow. It will be at least four nights on the road.”

Her eyes shot up and she looked as if she had more to say but remained quiet.

“Speak woman.”

“Is that why you brought me the kitten? Because you will be away for so long?”

There had been many moments since she came into his life that he had wanted to grab her and pull her into his arms, this moment was no exception.

Squinting, he leaned a little closer and gently bopped her nose with his finger.

“You, Genevieve, are coming with me.”

Instantly, she looked relieved, excited even, as if he had just lit a flame inside her.

“Oh,” she rushed. “Yes,” she looked around the room at his belongings. “I will pack your things once I return with supper,” she glanced back. “And milk for the kitten.”

Pushing back onto his pillows, he stretched out on the bed, watching her return to the basket and pick up the cat.

Walking back around to his side, she hesitated, “Lord?” Reaching out, she placed the kitten on his stomach, holding it in place until he raised his hands to take it. “Please, hold him until I return. I cannot leave him alone in a basket. He is only a baby,” she smiled down at the little thing. 

“Go,” he ordered, looking at the fidgeting ball of fluff with unnaturally sharp claws. If only Erik could see him now. Shit, he really needed to raid, swing his sword and breathe in the scent of blood and gore, undecay his masculinity. Watching her leave, he picked up the runt, bringing it closer to his face, and let out a long, weary sigh, “A fucking cat in my bed.”

\----

“If you have something to say, say it,” Sigefrid said, spying at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Both were atop massive horses, riding through a large field. More than a dozen others, mostly on horseback followed with two male thralls each with a horse and wagon; one carrying camp supplies and the other empty with the anticipation of returning full.

“Speak,” Sigefrid urged glancing again at Erik who was unable to hide his smirk.

“There is nothing to say, brother. I simply did not realize we now brought our personal thralls with us raiding,” he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. “Wait,” he furrowed his brow, “I do not even have have a personal thrall.”

“She is our translator,” Sigefrid shot back, also keeping his eyes forward.

“Of course,” Erik quickly replied. “My apologies, instead of attacking each village, we will send her in ahead and she can simply ask where they keep their valuables.”

At that Sigefrid shot Erik a glare, making the fair-haired Thurgilson laugh outright.

“Sigefrid,” Erik continued, “This has given me a thought. I will keep my eyes peeled for a pretty young captive so I may, too, have my own,” he paused, “personal translator. Also one with big tits and heart eyes whenever I am near.”

At that Sigefrid’s resolve cracked and he tipped his head back, laughing from his gut. Turning to look behind, his laughter simmered as he locked eyes with Genevieve who followed on a chestnut horse. Too far behind to have heard, she gave him a small smile.

“Hey,” Sigefrid straightened, glancing over at his brother, the slightest frown on his face. “Does she look at me with heart eyes?”

Scoffing, Erik shook his head, “I swear to the Gods, you’d be lost without me?”

———

The site to set up camp had been selected and the poles and canvases erected in lightening speed. The location sat between three villages all approximately half a morning's ride distance. It had been decided they would hit one a day before returning to Beamfleot.

Although the summer night sky had not cast the camp in complete darkness, torches were lit and both cooking and campfires started. It was late by the time all the work was done and the brothers entered their tent to find Genevieve, just finishing setting up their beds.

Without a second thought, both men began to strip down to their undershirts, Erik, immediately, flopping front first onto his bed; Sigefrid sitting on the edge of his, unstrapping his blade.

“Lord,” she spoke so quietly he nearly missed it. “I will go if you do not need anything else.”

“Woman, you are not sleeping with the horses.” Turning, he peered at her over his shoulder, “or worse...Haesten.” He jerked his head to the spot beside him. “Get in, just try to keep your hands to yourself, eh?”

Smiling, his eyes lingered on hers just a moment before looking back down, struggling with the leather laces that would not loosen. Circling the bed, she got down and knelt on the grass in front of him, finishing the task he struggled to do with one hand.

Pausing, with his heavy blade in her lap, she looked at the miscoloured skin at the end of his arm that he immediately began to squeeze, as he always did.

“Lord?”

“What?” he answered, looking at her, so close he could smell whatever she washed her hair with.

“It is so tight; it cuts off the blood. Must you wear it even when not fighting?”

Reaching down, he took the blade out of her hands and dropped it onto the grass beside his pillow. “Get in bed,” was his only reply.

Quickly, she rose, and he could tell by her tight face that she was embarrassed. Instantly, he was hit with a pang of something in his chest. Lowering down onto his side, he closed his eyes, listening to the rustling sounds of her undress; lifting her dress over her head, folding it, and placing it down. Getting into bed, she pulled the thin woven blanket over them and he swore he could smell the faint floral scent of her skin. Laying still, he did not bid her goodnight or roll over to catch a glimpse of her in her slip. If he had there would have been little hope of his hard-on ever going down.

\----

The mood around the bonfire the following night was boisterous. The day’s pillaging unexpectedly fruitful. These were moderate sized villages and the goal had been to secure improved equipment for Beamfleot, not necessarily fine valuables. However, they stumbled upon a cellar of a comparatively small church that had been stockpiling. Only four pieces of gold but numerous items of both silver and copper. It had been quite a find.

The mugs and mugs of ale made it impossible for the men to contain their merriment, as they laughed at the Saxon’s misguided thinking, hiding valuables in a church.

Meat stew and pan bread were being devoured by the bowl full and a second keg already opened. Making the rounds with a pitcher of ale for the umpteenth time, Genevieve refilled horns, looking rather relieved that her camp cooking had been so well received. Lifting his blade, Sigefrid waved her over.

“Sit woman, have a drink, you are my thrall, not theirs,” he shot her a cheeky smile, glancing down at the log beside, indicating for her to sit. By her rosy cheeks and quickness to smile, he could tell she, too, had been sampling the ale. Even his men had noticed how festive she looked in their gleeful, half-cut states.

Passing her his cup, he motioned for her to drink, not liking the way Haesten’s lurking, dark-edged eyes continued to stare at her from across the fire.

“Surely Lord,” Haesten piped up as if sensing Sigefrid’s thoughts, “you must share her with Lord Erik, all cozy in one tent,” he wiggled his brows. “There is certainly enough of her to go around,” he chuckled, taking a sloppy drink from his cup.

Grunting, Sigefrid opened his mouth to speak but it was Erik who responded first.

“Easy Haesten, the girl does need you ogling her. My brother does a fine enough job on his own,” he teased, evidently wanting to keep the mood light, “and you know Sigefrid never shares.”

The men, including Haesten, laughed, quickly returning to their cups, and Erik glanced at his big brother before taking a drink of his own.

Less in the mindset to slough it off, Sigefrid glanced over at Genevieve who sat frozen with her face tilted down, looking at the ground.

Without thinking, he brought his arm up and around her, gently pulling her to his side and rested his hand on the round of her hip. 

“He is an ass. You are tougher than that to let him bother you,” he spoke quietly.

“Lord, may I be excused. I promise to wake early and tidy in the morning.”

“Go on, I will not be far behind,” he lifted his arm away.

When he pushed through the flap of the tent, it was empty, no Genevieve. Spinning to head back out, he nearly knocked into her carrying a bucket of steaming water.

“There you are,” he smiled like a fool from both the drink and her own more muted smile.

Moving around to his side of the bed, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, throwing it down, leaving him in only his pants and boots. He knew his body was strong and powerful, the marks painting the history of his battles. Looking at her, he stifled his amusement catching her steal a glance at bare chest. 

“Are you bathing?” He asked, noticing the hot water and cloth in her hand.

“No lord, it is for you to wash before bed. I heated it on the cook fire while everyone was drinking.”

“Genevieve! Is that your way of telling me that I smell?” he chuckled. “And you do not want to share a bed with me smelling like,” lifting his arms, he sniffed his armpits, “a man!” 

His shit-eating grin had returned.

Laughing softly, she shook her head, “You smell like you did not survive the fight today.”

Mouth gaping, he pretended to take offense and she let out the loudest laugh he had ever heard from her.

“You insult your master,” he continued, beginning to unbutton his pants for bed, “I should..”

“You should what?” She cut him off playfully and he could tell she was pushing herself to be bold.

“I should be,” he said sarcastically, lowering his chin and eyeing her, “pulling you down onto this bed so you can really enjoy my stink.”

“And...” she made eyes at him, fluttering her lashes, “I should be hoping that you do not.” As soon as her words were out, she froze and her face began to turn from the ale rich pink to a fully flushed red.

He also tensed, his mind beginning to race. Truthfully, the Gods knew he could be thick when it came to women, but he was not wrong now; she was goading him, insinuating that she wished he would take her to bed. All the months together, he had been treating her like some fragile fawn; one, in need of protection. He was many things, a brute, a killer, a horrible dancer but never a man who forced himself onto slaves. She was not a fragile slave though, was she? She was a twenty-year-old woman. A gorgeous twenty-year-old woman who was flirting with him. 

Fuck this, he was going for it. Taking a step toward her, her eyes did a double-take, noticing and smiling at the look on his face.

“You still up?” Erik blew through the tent flaps heading for his bed. Dropping down to sit, he began taking off his boots. “Haesten is a dick-weed.” Looking up, he paused, seeing both Sigefrid and Genevieve standing stiff, staring at him, Sigefrid’s pants slightly open and his shirt no where to be found.

“Should…I.. come back?” He lifted his brows.

The two of them replied at once, her saying no and him saying yes.

Shrugging, he grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking it off over his head. “What a surprise,” he remarked, standing up to undo his pants. “The two of you yet to get your shit together.”

Genevieve turned and walked the bucket and cloth over to Sigefrid’s side of the bed, not making eye contact when he approached. Stopping, he stood close, closer than he ever had, and she finally looked up, her face even but her brown eyes still sparkling.

“Do you need help?” she whispered, maintaining his gaze and subtly pinching her lower lip with her teeth.

At that, his cock nearly broke through his pants. Clearing his throat, he glanced behind at Erik, returning his gaze to her face....her perfect, gorgeous, beautiful face looking up at him.

“Turn in,” he nodded toward the bed, “I can manage. I will be just a moment.” Taking the cloth from her hand, his fingers stroked hers as he willed himself not to reach up and brush her dark hair away from her cheek.

“I will first get Lord Erik’s hot water.”

Opening his mouth to object, she reached up and placed her hand on his chest, her eyes relaying the message that she would not be long. Moving around him, she headed out the door of the tent.

“Thank you Gen!” Erik yelled after her, glancing over to Sigefrid with a grin.

“Gen? Really?” Sigefrid frowned making Erik laugh. “Go help her with the bucket,” Sigefrid grunted, opening the rest of his pants and turning away to conceal his erection.

“She is your… translator,” Erik replied.

“True, but it is your hot water and I refuse to be your wench.”

\----

When she felt the hand slide around her front, just under her breasts and embrace her from behind, she straightened, exhaling into the feel. It was the round, fat stomach pressing against her back that made her freeze and attempt to turn.

Another hand slammed against her face, muzzling her mouth and stopping her from screaming as the arm around her ribs tightened. 

“Hmm,” Haesten’s slick voice rattled in her ear, his hand squeezing her face. “At last, my blooming flower, I can feel that plump ass of yours against my crotch... where it belongs,” he hummed again. “I am a patient man but it is hard to watch you trip all over Lord Sigefrid, knowing what juicy things they do to you at night.” Breathing his wretched breath on the side of her face, he ground himself harder against her. “Tell me, who takes you from behind while the other stuffs your mouth? If only they shared, I could....”

A thud came from behind and she was jolted forward, Haesten’s tight grip falling slack, releasing her. He slumped onto the ground at the back of her heels, and she spun around, horrified, tears already running down her cheeks. Standing over a dazed Haesten, Erik held his collar, the round bread pan in his other hand.

“You fool!” he screamed into Haesten’s face. “You had better get on your horse and ride fast before my brother catches wind of this.” Erik’s eyes looked like they were ready to rupture. “And believe me, he will.” Hauling the fat man up to stand, Erik got right in his face. “I give you this chance only because you have fought well for us but you know Sigefrid will not be as forgiving. Go!” He yelled and Haesten stumbled backward, turning and rushing away into the shadows.

Reaching out, Erik pulled Genevieve into an embrace, rubbing and patting her back as she wept.

“Thank you, Lord,” she straightened, shakily wiping her face. “Thank you. I do not know what I would have done,” she sobbed again.

Turning, he kept his arm around her shoulders, readying her to walk.

“Truth is,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “I do not know what would have become of me if you and Lord Sigefrid had not found me in the first place...made me a slave. Surely, I would be dead.”

“Genevieve,” he rushed softly. “You cannot possibly think you are just a slave. And Haesten is the only man in Beamfleot stupid enough to ignore Sigefrid’s order to stay away. My brother,” he shook his head, his eyes looking large and round in the moonlight, “I have never, in my life, seen him so gentle with anyone… until you. He cares for you a great, great deal. But,” he straightened, “that is a conversation for the two of you to share. Come,” he moved them forward, “Let us return and watch steam shoot out of his ears when he hears about this. It will be quite a sight,” he pressed his lips together, guiding her back in the direction of the tent.

——

That was the first night they slept in each other’s arms. It had taken Erik’s full convincing for Sigefrid to stay and not take his sword and track Haesten through the woods. After fuming and pacing the grass floor, he climbed into bed, and slid close behind her, wrapping his arm tight around her waist. She did not flinch or pull away, she nestled her head back below his chin and placed her arm over his, holding it, like she never wanted him to let go.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning progressed like any other preparing for a raid with the men packing their horses and weapons for the ride to the next doomed village. Despite the shock the previous night, Genevieve rose ahead of Sigefrid and slipped out of the tent, busying herself, tidying the mess from the men's night of drinking.

When the time came, Sigefrid called her over to where he stood with his decorated war-horse, fitted with as much leather and fur-trimmed armour as him. She stood before him and his eyes flitted over her; her bowed face and soft shoulders, lips in a slight simper, making her appear almost bashful. He fucking loved it.   
Inhaling deeply, he inwardly sighed, the feel of her curves holding her all night, the smell of her hair and skin, flashed through his mind making his nostrils flare.

Taking a step closer, he picked up a lock of her long brown hair, placing it behind her shoulder. It was a tiny gesture but somehow meant to remind her that things had changed, and he was not going back.

"You stay close to the camp today. We will be back by dusk." Motioning with his head, he glanced over at the cook-fire where the male thralls were stacking freshly cut wood. "If you need water, send one of the boys to the creek."

Nodding, her eyes lifted just enough to meet his gaze for an instant.

"Hey," he hunched down in order to catch and hold her eye. "I will see you in a while, eh?" Those were the most romantic words of farewell he could muster.

Nodding again, her lashes fluttered and she smiled but it quickly faded. "Do come back though," she whispered, the center of her dark brows pinching.

Shifting even closer, his eyes brightened and he felt a thrill at the thought of her being concerned. "I will go to Valhalla one day, but not today, and not by the blade of any Saxon villager."

She nodded again and he could no longer resist. Reaching up, he cupped her cheek with his large weathered hand, his thumb sweeping away a speck of ash from her lightly freckled skin. She did not reach for him, but held his gaze, staring up into his dark eyes; eyes that were fixed on her pale pink lips. Like the fierce, Lord of Chaos yet chicken-shit-warrior he was, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Gods help him, he inwardly cringed, nearly shaking his head. But when he pulled back she was smiling, clearly happy with the outcome.

"See you tonight," she whispered, and turned away, heading toward the cook fire, peering back once over her shoulder.

Ready to leave his embarrassment in the dust, he mounted his horse glancing at his grinning brother and their similarly grinning men.

Grabbing the reins with his hand, he held his blade high above his head, "Today, we raid and send a message to Alfred that we are here to stay!" his voice boomed through the camp. "Let us strip them of their wealth and ride back rich, get drunk, and wake in warm beds."

Maneuvering his horse in a tight circle, his eye caught her smile one last time making his chest puff and him roar again into the air. Giving his horse a firm kick, he led the men out of camp, riding tall as if he possessed the invincibility of the Gods.

\----

The men raided well and for the second time, there was little need for the clashing of swords. The threat of the Danes was now so realized that few picked up weapons to defend and instead fled to the forest to hide.

The spoils were less than the previous day but Sigefrid uncovered a finely crafted gold ring with a perfectly round, prong-set pearl. It was well crafted, with a simple beauty, small in size and perfect for the finger of a woman. Picking it up, he turned it over in his large hand before holding it up for Erik to see. The fair-haired Thurgilson responded with a simple smile and an encouraging nod.

\---

The ride back was a joyous one with the men laughing and at one point, racing their horses over a hill through an open field. Arriving back, the buzz of excitement abruptly ended when they found the camp abandoned, the cookfire cold, and one of the thrall boys crumpled on the ground with a deep gash to his throat.

The camp was scoured and an enraged Sigefrid, incapable of tempering his panic, stormed about barking orders to find her.

"Where is she!" he screamed rushing out from checking their tent. "Where is she!"

His breath was heaving and his nearly black eyes were wild, scanning the area and surrounding trees.

"Sigefrid, here!" Erik called from somewhere over the slope and that led to the river on the edge of the camp. Rushing down the hill with three of his men, Sigefrid lurched to a stop seeing Erik crouched over the other thrall, badly wounded and barely conscious.

Blood covered his torso making it hard to know the extent of his injuries but it was clear, he had little time.

"Boy!" Sigefrid called as he approached, "What happened?"

Coughing weakly, the kid's drowsy eyes slowly tracked from Erik's face over to Sigefrid. "Where is Genevieve?" He pressed.

"Haesten," the thrall whispered and Sigefrid's eyes flashed wide.

"How long ago?"

"Not long," he uttered trying to point across the river to indicate the direction.

"Erik!" Sigefrid yelled as he turned away and began running up the hill toward their horses.

"You did well," Erik said to the boy, giving a nod, before placing his dagger to the young man's throat and putting an end to his suffering.

\----

"Brother!" Erik yelled at Sigefrid's back, but he did not stop. "Brother!" He repeated as they rode single file through the narrow trees.

Their warriors rode in tow as they followed a dear path, the only visible way. The ground on either side was so densely covered with underbrush and bramble, it was impossible to lead their horses off the trail.

"Sigefrid!" He hollered again and this time, the older Thurgilson slowed his horse to a stop, each rider halting in succession.

"Let us stop and think about where he may be heading."

"We are losing time, she could already be dead," Sigefrid snapped back over his shoulder.

"You and I both know," Erik paused, clearing his throat, "that is not what he took her for."

Gritting his teeth, Sigefrid said nothing, his head and chest so tight, it felt like they might tear.

"If the boy was correct, this is likely the only path he could have taken," Erik continued, seeing that his brother was too furious to speak. "We will keep on but the light is fading and we will have to stop, at some point, for the night."

"You will have to stop for the night," Sigefrid replied, adjusting the reigns in his hand, his heal knocking the side of the horse to go.

——

The sun bid farewell and despite the star-lit sky, the forest was cloaked in blackness. The usual sounds of the night's creatures were absorbed by the rush of moving water from another river somewhere ahead. Grunting, frustrated, Sigefrid stopped and dismounted, not saying what everyone likely knew, that it was too dangerous to ascend the rocky slope to the water at night.

As the others followed his lead and lowered to the ground, offering their horses what water they had, Sigefrid, in the pitch black, unpacked his weapons and strapped them on.

Without a word, he headed off, continuing on foot, skidding on his heels down the dark path, his bladed arm extended in front to block branches from hitting his face. Hearing movement behind, he stopped and turned.

"Did you think I would let you carry on without me?" Erik asked, standing in the dark, equipped with his own weapons, even a bow slung over his arm.

Despite knowing his little brother could not see, Sigefrid nodded before turning back and carrying on toward the river's edge. Without a definitive plan, they moved in the direction of the water knowing its edge would provide a rocky but bramble free path.

Every step placed on the uneven ground, every breath drawn seemed to stir a new fear of what vile treatment she could be enduring. Bound, beaten, the images of Haesten's filthy body over hers plagued his mind; her beautiful face contorted in pain. He wanted to scream. It was his fault, entirely his fault. He should have hunted Haesten the previous night and slit his guts like a hog. Instead, he left her with the protection of children; young boys who were no match for a Dane with a sword.

"Sigefrid," Erik called from behind. "Let us make a plan."

Grunting, Sigefrid stopped, and lowered to a crouch, scooping water from the river into his hand to drink. Erik was right, they were rudderless, armed to the tits and stumbling in the dark.

Looking over, he could just make out Erik's outline, also taking water in his hand. "All I have done is..."

A noise sounded from somewhere in the distance making him freeze and lift his ear. It could have almost been the call of a bird, something shrill but at this late hour, he thought it unlikely.

"With the water, it is hard to know where that came from," Erik said and Sigefrid felt a rush of relief that he had not imagined it.

Pushing to stand, he waited, afraid to walk and miss another sign.... but after some time, none came.

"Does the sky seem brighter ahead?" Sigefrid asked, tipping his head back and looking up.   
There was no glow from a camp but there was a dark patch in the sky where the stars seemed less bright. "Let's go," he said, not waiting for a response, starting off into a run.

Without thinking, he stepped into the river, wading up to his chest, heading to the far side. The current was strong threatening his step but he pushed on, glancing behind to see Erik following, also up to his chest. Once out, they continued along the shore, Sigefrid rushing as if the direction was clear.

Through the trees, up from the river, the slightest flicker caught his eyes. Slowing, he motioned for Erik to look as they moved away from the water and into the tree line for cover.

Another scream ripped through the night and his heart lurched; she was there, Genevieve was there. Holding his breath, his pulse began to race, thundering in his ears.

As they rounded an outcrop of rocks, his worst nightmare came into sight. A large bonfire lit the scene; Haesten was standing, turned away, facing Genevieve in front. Hands over her head, she stood, strung to the branch of a large tree with a gag-like bandana in her mouth.

His blood boiled and he wanted to throw his ax, his sword, stab that filthy letch until his body bloated like a full skin of ale. Erik's hand on his shoulder made him flinch.

"It is far but I am sure I saw the glint of a blade in his hand," Erik murmured keeping his voice low. "The distance is still too great, but the noise of the river will cover our steps. If he does not turn, we may be able to reach him before we give ourselves away."

Saying nothing, Sigefrid stepped forward, his fury threatening to spill as he watched her struggle on the line while Haesten ran his hand up and down her body over her dress. The bastard placed his dagger to her chest, slipping it below the laces at her bust and began cutting the ties, making her squeal again. It twisted Sigefrid's insides and took every bit of his strength not to run and hurl his blade.

Stalking forward, he silently snarled as Haesten ripped the front of her dress apart, exposing most of her breasts. She sobbed through the cloth gag as his grubby hand kneaded her chest. Sigefrid could not hear what vile things Haesten was saying but he watched her turn her face from him, straining to get away.

Squirming, she managed to pull back enough to lift her knee and kick him between his short stubby legs. Stumbling back, he planted his feet, knife still in hand and lunged forward, grabbing her face.

At that Sigefrid broke into a run, gripping his ax, now close enough to hear Haesten's threats. Focussing on the center of Haesten's back, Sigefrid drew in a deep breath and raised his ax when, over Haesten's shoulder, Genevieve spotted him approaching. Haesten tensed, whipping his head around to look, his blade still pressed to her skin. Sigefrid lurched to a stop, frozen, as did Erik behind.

"My lord," Haesten seemed to cover any shock with a slick crooning voice, "I should not be surprised. I was expecting to see you.... sooner or later."

Snarling like a beast, Sigefrid's bared his teeth, his arm shaking, wanting to let his ax fly. His eyes darting back and forth between Haesten and the point of the knife poking at her sternum.

"Can you blame me, Lord? I had hoped to have time alone with her...proper time," he lowered his chin, smirking, "before slitting her throat but.... here we are."

Keeping his eyes on Sigefrid, Haesten raised his dagger to her throat and Genevieve braced, squeezing her eyes shut.

"No!" Sigefrid shouted and charged forward.

The rush of something whizzed passed his ear and Haesten's body jolted as an arrow ripped through the skin on the side of his throat.

Gasping against the gag, Genevieve opened her eyes, watching him fumbled back and drop the knife, clutching his throat with the point of the arrow protruding out the other side. Instantly, he dropped to his knees, falling onto all fours.

"Genevieve!" Sigefrid called and her shocked eyes returned to his, breaking again with tears.

Stopping just steps away, he lifted his ax and in one sweep brought it down, cutting Haesten's head clean off his neck.

Dropping the ax, he stepped to her, using his blade to cut the gag free from her head, then wrapping his arm around her and carefully slicing the ropes above.

She slumped into his arms, her small hands clinging to his chest as he hugged her tight against his still wet body. Guilt, anger, and sweet relief flooded every part of him. The thought of what could have been still a spear stuck in his heart.

"Are you hurt?" He pressed his lips to the top of her hair but she did not answer. Leaning back, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his hand, lifting her face to his. "Gen, did he hurt you?"

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, more tears slipping out. "No," she whimpered, and opened her brown eyes, staring up into his. "He did not get the chance."

Pulling her against him, he embraced her again, resting the side of his face to hers. Closing his own eyes, he silently gave thanks to the Gods, grateful he found her, grateful to Erik who still stood behind with the bow in his hand, and grateful he would have the chance to love her, as he had, all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter but I am feeling like there needs to be a sappy, romantic, sexy final chapter. Let me know what you think?


	6. Chapter 6

A month had passed since that horrid night.

Returning to Beamfleot the following day, everything had changed; all sense of master and slave had evaporated. Gone was the unfamiliarity and formality between them, instead, there was some formless bond that kept them tied. If Sigefrid was within the city walls, they were together, often seated side by side and if not, never apart for long. All meals were shared in the dining room in front of his men; men who would no longer dare cast her a second glance. She was his lady now and Erik had made certain that every person knew the price Haesten had paid.

At the order of Sigefrid, a slave had collected Genevieve's few things and moved her over into his chamber along with her kitten, back from the woman who had been watching it. Naturally, her duties, other than the ones she insisted on keeping, had been relieved and they shared his room as well as his bed every night since that dreadful trip.

And still..... no words had been spoken about what had grown between them. Neither of them had ever mentioned Haesten or the feelings they displayed that night back in the tent, after horns and horns of ale. No physical desires had been shared or acted upon and for the second time since meeting, he knew he had drawn an invisible line that he felt he could not cross. Within him, barely under the surface, was a ferocious need to protect her. She, again, was his wounded doe and he would not push his urges upon her. The thought of her conceding simply because of her reliance and his position of power made him feel ill. Never again, would she be put in that place.

And still.... he fucking ached for her. Longed for her. Waited each day for night to come, impatient for them to retreat to his chamber. He craved those candle-lit evenings, those moments with her alone in bed, lying side by side under the covers.

Regardless of how they fell asleep, they would wake in a tangle of arms and legs wrapped around the other like it had always been and always would be. The spoiled cat, that he thought should be in the barn, was never far away.

Yet as a man, a Dane warrior, it, them, the whole thing was agonizing, continuously confronting and always a challenge of his will. His attachment to her was palatable and many mornings he woke wondering if he should allow it to continue or, instead, end the torment and set her free.

Days were spent watching her, asking himself if he had the strength or even the kindness to risk letting her go. There was no question that she had a fondness for him, but he wondered if it was enough for her to stay with her former captor in a land that had taken so much.

And still.... he loved being with her. Loved everything about her. Listening to her hum while she sewed, watching her braid her long dark hair for bed, how she would rarely fill her own plate and instead take food from his. Gods, she was lovely, pure-hearted and kind and never shaken by his gruffness.

As a man usually led by impulse, the path to clarity was heart-rending but he had made the decision to speak with her and no longer stay paralyzed.

So....there he stood, in the late day sun with no armour and no weapons, wearing just a brown tunic and pants, his arm bear with his blade left behind on the table in their room.

As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked over her shoulder, squinting from the low afternoon sun. She was beautiful standing among the apple trees, with her wavy hair hanging free except for the fine braids on either side of her face. Her eyes were lightly lined with kohl and her dress was nearly sheer, illuminated by the light showing the curve of her brilliant ass. Fuck, he felt both excited and scared.

"Can I offer you an apple?" she smiled turning to face him, holding up one of the tart green ones he preferred. The basket at her feet looked heavy, nearly full to the top and he wondered if she had been expecting him.

As he approached, she lowered to sit, patting the ground beside her.

Taking the apple from her out-stretched hand, he settled into the grass feeling like a peasant on the ground but he did not share his grumbles. Chomping an enormous bite, he shook his head with amusement as she plucked it back from his hand and bit a piece from what was left.

"Why, woman, when you have a basket full of apples, do you eat mine?"

Scrunching her nose, she shrugged. "I like to eat your food."

"I have noticed."

"It is funny," she smiled and squinted one eye, her shyness not entirely outgrown.

"What is?" he grinned, nodding for her to answer.

Looking down, she pulled a long blade of grass from the ground, rolling it back and forth between her thumb and finger, the seed pods spinning free. "It is sweet to see a big black wolf share his food." She glanced up. "I like it."

"I. Like. You." he articulated in his deep Danish accent, hucking the apple behind him and leaning forward to grab her.

Embracing her around the waist, he pulled her toward him until she sat between his legs, her giggles bolstering his confidence.

"I have never said these words so I am going to say them now," his face grew serious and he watched her, again, lower her eyes, her expression also settling. "You are a free woman, Genevieve. Not my slave."

Dropping the grass, she reached up, still avoiding his gaze, and began fiddling with the cuff of his shirt that she had re-hemmed.

Clearing her throat, she glanced at him but only for a moment. "I gathered that when you had a new slave brought in."

"I see that girl has braided your hair and lined your eyes," he smiled, his eyes flitting over her profile, his dick flexing in his pants, reminding him it was there.

"Do you like it?" she whispered, clearly trying not to smile.

"Do I like it?" his smile widened, and his dark brows shot high. "Yes," he replied and then grunted like a boar making her laugh. "Genevieve," he leaned in closer, again becoming serious, "It is your choice whether to stay. If you choose not to, I will personally take you back to Frankia. But....the decision is yours."

Saying nothing, she looked at him, her thoughts crinkling the skin of her forehead.

"What?" he nudged her, squeezing her in his arms. "Say something."

"I would like to see Frankia again in my life but there is nothing there for me."

"Will you stay with me then?" The second he asked the question, he wondered why he had risked it.

Shifting, she pulled out of his arms and his heart sank but she quickly turned toward him, settling back on her knees to look at him. There was no smile on her face, but her eyes were warm and bright giving him hope that she was not thinking up the words to reject him. Shifting closer, she placed her hands over his face and he instinctively jerked his head back.

"What are you doing?"

"Hush," she quieted him, "Shut your eyes."

"No," he pulled back again, chuckling.

"Sigefrid," she pleaded gently and his name in her sweet accent nearly made his chest break wide. "Shut your eyes," she whispered, placing her hands back onto his face.

"This is stupid," he grumbled unable to stop the return of his shit-eating grin.

As foolish as it was, he closed his eyes, nearly flinching when he felt the softest graze of her lips against his skin, her hair tickling his face, as her mouth pressed to his ear.

"Sigefrid," she whispered again, "I want to stay with you."

"I want to fucking marry you," he rushed out making her laugh again.

"Let us start with a kiss then," she said in her melodic as she lowered her hands.

Waiting with his eyes still closed, he was grateful the next sensation was her beautiful lips pressing against his. The kiss was like her, gentle and sweet, and everything she had made him realize he wanted for himself.

"I need you," he said, opening his eyes, his heart and head drinking in her closeness.

"I know," she replied resting her hands onto his shoulder and inching closer toward him. Bringing her lips back to his face, she kissed his cheek, leaning again toward his ear. "I can see it when you look at me."

Pulling back, he opened his mouth to speak but before he could, she kissed him again and then again, her beautiful mouth inviting him deeper. Wrapping his arms around her, he groaned, pulling her closer until she was seated in his lap. The more he tasted, the more he knew he could never be without her.

Breaking the kiss, she looked at him, "Should we return to the room?"

"No. Let us stay here, under the sun, where the Gods can see us."

Squeezing her to him, he leaned them back until they lay flat on the warm ground. Adjusting, she turned so she was looking into his eyes and he reached over and smoothed the hair away from the edge of her face. Wrapping his fingers behind the nape of her neck, he kissed her again, her mouth so soothing and welcoming with the rolling of their tongues, it made it hard for him to keep a slow pace. Seeing her chest begin to rise and fall, he reached down and began to unlace the ties at her bust, her heavy bosoms straining against the fabric, begging to be freed.

Distracting him from the work of her laces, she sighed against his lips and it felt like a strike of heat shooting to his groin. Quickly he lifted her leg over his hip, pulling their cores closer, and dipped his palm under the fabric of her dress, skimming up the backs of her gorgeous, thick thighs.

He had thought of what this moment might be like a thousand times and yet he was still unprepared for how it pulled the air from his lungs; for how being with her made him feel like a man.

Continuing to run his hand higher, he made contact with her bare bottom, at last, touching the part of her he had never been able to drag his eyes away from. It was smooth and round and squeezing it created the most desirable result, her whimpering and rocking her hips against him. Fuck he thought, as his dick bagged to be unleashed but he could not rush; this was the start of the rest of his life. Valhalla would have to wait.

It was impossible to stop his hands from roaming, they tingled with the need to touch her, to explore every crease and part. Slipping down between her thighs, he felt her sex, his fingers brushing the hair of her mound, so soft it felt like the down of a thistle. 

Enough was enough, he had to see her. All of her. Abruptly, he pulled away and pushed himself up to sit, the loss of contact, making her eyes shoot open.

Chuckling, he reached behind his head and pulled the tunic off his shoulders before undoing the top of his pants. Springing forward, his cock was standing alert, ready for her warmth.

Lowering her eyes to his open pants, she pressed her lips together stifling a smile, her dark eyes sparkled and the natural pink of her cheeks deepened to the colour of a rose. By the Gods, he was going to cherish her.

Sitting up, she shuffled her dress out from under her, pulling it up over her head and throwing it onto the ground. Smoothing down her mussed hair, she glanced away as her shyness crept back in. Her voluptuous form was now bare and breathtaking and in every way felt like a gift.

"Lie down woman. I want to look at you."

Lowering herself back to the ground, she moved awkwardly, lifting her arms over her head and using one to cover her eyes.

"Stop that. Look at me," he insisted and she lowered her hands to the grass.

Kicking off his boots, he ripped the front of his breeches down, quickly undressing completely. Crouching over her, he opened her legs and knelt between, noticing how she fought the need to glance away. 

"You never need to hide from me. Never me, Genevieve. Never."

Biting her bottom lip, she said nothing but nodded. The small gesture and slight simper, prodding on his arousal.

Raking his eyes down her body, he stared at her large pillowy breasts, so full, they fell apart resting to either side. The plushness of her skin, her round hips, the rolls of her tummy that moved each time he shifted her made him feel, again, like that hungry black wolf and at that angle, he could see the underside of her beautifully round cheeks.

The Gods were smiling down at him, they must be, he thought and he would repay them by worshiping every part of her. Exhaling, his cock twitched as he replayed her whispered words in her songful voice telling him that she wanted to stay. And looking at her perfectly plump body then only made his erection strain and his balls feel tight, knowing with complete certainty, that she was designed by the Gods to produce life; life they would create together. Exhaling again, he nearly grunted thinking how badly he wanted to fill her with his seed.

Crawling forward, he hovered above and pressed his lips to hers again, pouring his thoughts into her mouth. 

Straightening back onto his knees, he shifted her legs further apart, resting her spread thighs over his. Stroking his hardness with one hand, he reached down with the other, the glistening of her wetness teasing his eye and making the flames in his chest burn.

Spreading her folds with his fingers, he groaned as he looked down at her light pink insides, her body's honey allowing his thumb to slip back and forth over her clit making her gasp and arch her back. What a sound, he thought, mesmerized. She was all of life and with her, he knew he would share everything.

"Sigefrid," her quiet voice called to him and his eyes looked up to her. "Make love to me, Sigefrid."

As if the war horn had blown, he responded, guiding his swollen tip to her opening. Looking up, his dark eyes locked with hers and all at once he pushed inside.

"By the Gods!" he rushed out as she raised her hands to his shoulders, beckoning him down to rest on her. It felt so right and he knew this was the feeling he would survive any battle for. She was his path to glory.

Withdrawing partially, he pushed back in, his yearning for her unlike anything he had ever felt, an arousal so ripe it smoothed his chaos and steadied his mind. She was the dawn to his dusk, his woman and soon he would make her his wife.

Heat coursed through him, from his hard cock deep in her narrow womb, across his skin, spreading up his back and neck. A low groan rumbled out and he looked up to the trees, fighting the urge to rut hard and fast and immediately spill.

Gods, she looked perfect lying beneath him, he thought as he looked back down, watching pleasure sweep across her beautiful face. The waive of affection he felt was overwhelming and he closed his eyes savouring the feel of being inside her as he rhythmically rocked his hips, each stroke pushing deeper. His skin was moving and pressing against hers bringing forth her scent and the smell of her glossy dark hair, his tongue was tracking up her warm throat as he thrust into her again.

Their movements did not stop until her legs were squeezing his sides, her arms around his neck, his cock sliding out only to pump back in. Every movement was controlled and powerful, and his steady breathing was morphing into low grunts and indiscernible words. 

"Sigefrid," she uttered, and his eyes snapped open, seeing her parted lips and hooded eyes, her breath in a light pant. 

"Tell me," she whispered with a smile and he had to think about what he had been mumbling. "Say what you are thinking. Please. I can see it in your eyes." Tilting up, she kissed him, her rich brown eyes sparkling, reflecting the sun above.

Staring at her, he felt his chest swell as he languidly withdrew and eased back in and then for the first time in his thirty-one years, he opened his warrior heart.

"Genevieve, I love you."


End file.
